


Sex Holiday

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming In Pants, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Military Kink, Outdoor Sex, Pirate Sherlock, Public Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Sherlock in Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: On Friday night, Sherlock and John played a pirate role play sex game that not even Mycroft's brief interuption could spoil. Besides, Sherlock has brought John to his parents' house for the weekend, and he packed more than a couple of pirate outfits for the occasion.  Yes. They're having a two day sex holiday.





	1. Saturday

Sherlock stood at as much attention as he could manage with John’s hand shoved down the front of Sherlock’s khaki fatigues. Stroking. Enough of the middle buttons were undone that they could both see in the mirror the flash of red panty silk; the movement of John’s knuckles beneath the thick cotton and the silk knickers; the glistening head of Sherlock’s cock peeping above the waistband, and how pre-come squeezed out in pearly drops every time John’s enveloping fist made it’s lazy way up Sherlock’s shaft.

The shape of John’s other hand underneath the khaki shirt was also visible, where it slipped into the gap where the button had been bitten off and his fingers played soft-hard-harder-soft with Sherlock’s nipple.

In that guest room mirror, Sherlock could see his own trembling body, his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the wide-open irises of his eyes hungrily drinking in the way Captain Watson handled him with such serene confidence.  The Captain’s low, sultry, wicked laughed blew hot breath over Sherlock’s ear, then the Captain kissed and sucked on his neck, all the while stroking and rubbing beneath his Corporal’s clothes. Hidden yet seen.

What neither of them could see but both could feel was the gap in the back of Sherlock’s fatigues. Sherlock had carefully torn some of the stitching so that when John was ready, he’d been easily able to tear open a gap. To shove his fingers in and fondle-fidget plush mounds and sensitive secret places. To tug the red silk to one side. John had undone only a few buttons of his own khaki trousers and fed his hard cock through his fly-gap, then between the torn seams, into the snug, lube-slicked press of Sherlock’s arsecheeks.

And now they could both feel though not see John’s cock frotting into Sherlock’s cleft while John took his sweet time wanking his Panty Corporal. John’s hips rocked against Sherlock’s backside and his cock slipped thick and hard against hot skin; the crown of him slid maddening-firm over Sherlock’s hole.

And reflected in the mirror, Sherlock reached behind to clutch the cloth at John’s thighs, tilted his head back onto John’s shoulder, and gave himself up to sensation. The visual feast; the sound of John’s huffing breath in his ear and his own helpless grunts of pleasure, the feel of John’s cock against his arse and John’s fingers on his nipple and John’s hand on his cock and the pressure of cotton on his body and the silk panties on his tightening balls, the scent of sweat and sex which he could taste, too, on the very tip of his tongue…

“Say it, Corporal Holmes,” growled John in his ear.

“Please Captain Watson sir,” Sherlock panted, voice high, breathless, then breaking deep and needy, “Please make me come in my panties.”

John suckled on Sherlock’s earlobe and abandoned Sherlock’s nipple to unfasten the topmost button on Sherlock’s fatigues. He dipped that hand into Sherlock’s trousers to cup his balls through the silk and increased the pace of his strokes.

“Look at your dick, Corporal.”

Sherlock looked. The thick head of him peeking over the top of the silk panties.  Pearlescent fluid cascading from the slit down the crown into the red silk, soaking it. Beneath it, under the silk, the movement. His Captain’s knuckles stretching the cloth. Further down, his Captain’s strong hand cupping and fondling his balls.

“Sir,” Sherlock moaned, “Sir…”

Captain Watson pressed his lips close to his Corporal’s ear. Hands working. Hips working (cock sliding and bumping against and over Sherlock’s hole, slick with his Captain’s want).

“Fire when ready,” Captain Watson’s voice was gruff, and then he bit his Corporal’s neck and thrust and stroked and the panty corporal cried out and came in his pretty panties, and also a fair bit on the mirror.

The Captain stroked his Corporal through his orgasm and then held him until he could support himself. Captain Watson’s cock slipped out from the corporal’s warm cleft but, still hard and straining, pressed against him still. The corporal could feel the heat of him, feel the dampness from the Captain’s arousal soaking into the cloth against his bum.

And then Corporal Holmes turned as he sank to his knees, and he hooked his hands over the top of his Captain’s fatigues (no belt, buttons half undone) and yanked, sending the remaining buttons spinning, and he engulfed his Captain’s cock in his hot, greedy mouth.

Captain Watson moaned, rocked his hips. His hands were threaded through the corporal’s curls to guide, hold, but not push.  The corporal’s hands were wrapped around his Captain’s arse, pulling him closer so the corporal could swallow him deeper, then hold them both steady as the Captain cried out, hips jerking, coming hard in his Corporal’s mouth.

Afterwards, sprawled on the guest bedroom bed in deshabille, Sherlock summoned a sardonic look for John. “Fire when ready?”

John just laughed smugly, a soft chuffing sound. “Made you come in your panties.”

*

John practically danced around the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, a dressing gown, and the expression of a thoroughly satisfied man.  He bounced on the balls of his feet till the kettle boiled. Tea steeping, he darted down the hall to the guest room.

Sherlock was still sprawled face down on the bed, one leg sticking out from the covers, one arse cheek on pale display. The faded pink stripe of mild rope burn was not a flaw, but a further cause for smug delight. He ran two fingers across a similar abrasion on his wrist.

“Lunch?” John suggested.

“’k off,” muttered Sherlock.

“Rude.”

Sherlock pulled a spare pillow over his head to block out John’s voice.

“Good thing I love you.”

“’ve you,” Sherlock mumbled back.

John dropped a kiss on that divine bare buttock, patted the side still covered by the sheet, and returned to the kitchen to replenish his strength.

He took a book from the lounge room to read while he had his tea.   _The Homeward Bounders_ , Diana Wynne Jones - well-worn, the front page inscribed with _To William, Merry Christmas, Love Mummy and Daddy_. William was crossed out and Sherlock written over the top in a childish but painstakingly careful hand. Curious, John checked a few more books. Roald Dahl. Alan Garner. Rosemary Sutcliffe. Robert Louis Stevenson. Arthur Ransome. No more ‘William’ in those, only ‘Sherlock’. _With love from Mummy and Daddy._

After tea and three chapters, John went back to the bedroom.

“Now?”

Sherlock cracked open an eyelid. “Outside,” he said.

*

“Fried egg and chutney? _Really_?”

“Mitts off my sandwich.” John rescued his lunch from Sherlock’s disparaging inspection. “There’s cheese and tomato for you.” He tossed the packet across the blanket, where Sherlock deftly caught it and sniffed it with magnificent suspicion.

“Yes, it’s got that French mustard you like.”

Sherlock caught John’s hand in his, gently bit the pad of it, then folded the waxed paper back and ate his sandwich. The cedar here, by the meadow, spread a lovely shade over their blanket, the sandwiches, the bottle John had taken from the fridge. A glass each of cold cider on this warm sunny day, a sandwich, the hum of bees in the meadow and the call of birds overhead. Glorious.

“I’m not going to kiss you while you taste of fried egg and chutney,” said Sherlock sternly, out of the blue.

“That’s what you think.”

“I am a master of baritsu.”

“I know where you’re ticklish.”

“I am not ticklish.”

“You so are.”

“I am n…”

He was. Under his ribs on the left side. Sherlock squirmed away then employed the famed baritsu to counter attack, sending John shouting and laughing into a commando-crawl way. Sherlock pounced and bit John’s arse. John shouted, twisted and caught Sherlock in a headlock with his thighs. Sherlock got out of that one by the simple expedient of burrowing his face into John’s crotch and rubbing it in there enthusiastically.

“Jesus,” huffed John, humping up.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, opening his mouth to suck at whatever thickening portion was pressing directly on his nose.

“We can’t…”

But Sherlock already had John’s button undone and jeans zip down. Nimble fingers tugged down John’s pants.

“Ssh,” said Sherlock, and started licking.

John shushed.

A few minutes later, they both had jeans shoved down their thighs, shirts shoved up under their armpits, chests and nipples damp with licking and now Sherlock pressed down on John, the two of them rutting away and kissing deep to swallow the desperate sounds of pleasure. One guttural grunt; one gasping sigh; one sticky mess on crotches and bellies.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him down for a closer hug, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock nibbled at his jaw.

“You’re all teeth today.” Sherlock stopped nibbling. “Didn’t say I minded.” Sherlock nibbled a little more, then pushed away to lie on his back.

A bee hummed lazily past and settled briefly on his chest. John’s brow furrowed in brief concern.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. “She won’t sting unless she’s threatened. She’s foraging for nectar. What?”

John was grinning at him. “The expression on your face when you look at it. Besotted.”

“Her.”

John leaned a little closer to the bee stepping delicately across Sherlock’s pale chest. “The blessings of this bee be upon us.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock said fondly.

*

After dinner, John put aside his reading to sew buttons he’d spent an hour retrieving from the bedroom, the treehouse. Those that were lost forever replaced with near matches from Mr Holmes’s sewing basket. (Mrs Holmes was a rubbish seamstress.) The naval lieutenant’s coat, the breeches and his fatigues all needed buttons, and Sherlock’s torn army trousers had seams to fix.

Sherlock paused in his private violin concert. “Not too tight, and use the cheap cotton.”

“I know how to sew buttons, Sherlock. Who do you think did running repairs on my uniform when I was in the army?”

“Those repairs were meant to hold. These ones are meant to make it easy to rip the buttons off.”

John paused with the needle. “Is that what you did to this lot?”

“Yes.”

“To make it easy to rip the buttons off?”

“I like that part.”

“Me too.”

John resewed the first two buttons more loosely and in cheaper cotton before continuing.

Sherlock played _You Sexy Thing_ for a verse and a chorus before abandoning music for a French copy of Murger’s _Vie de Boheme_.

*

At 3am in the treehouse, John wearing nothing but the blue naval frock coat was trying to keep quiet. His wrists were tied together with a scarlet sash and fastened above with another sash around the mast of the beech tree. His spread legs were either side of Sherlock’s hips, his bare feet flat on the deck, and his upthrust cock stood sleekly wet between them.

Sherlock, just as bare except for the galleon coat and the pirate hat, was kneeling with John in his lap, his hands clasped around John’s waist as he mouthed at the pebbled nubs of John’s nipples.

Then suddenly Sherlock was tearing off the galleon coat and moving to place it underneath his knees and John’s backside. He stopped to hold John’s face in his hands and to kiss deep, deep, deep. Then he straddled John’s lap, rose on his knees and positioned John’s cock in his cleft.

“Been wanting this since this morning,” he said, voice deep and rough. He wriggled, lubing himself with John’s pre-come. Rose onto his knees and reached for the tin he’d brought up and impatiently pushed two fingers into the Vaseline and reached behind to push them into himself.

“F-f-fuck…” John stuttered. “F-f-fuck.”

“That’s _Captain_ Fuck, Sea-Hawk John.” He repositioned John’s cock and bore down on it, moan-sighing with pleasure.

“Jeeeeeeeeeezus.”

“Yer a salty dog,” Captain Brainstorm breathed against Sea-Hawk’s mouth, “Sound like one.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Captain, fucking Christ, god yes, fucking ride it, ride it, fucking hell…” Voice low and hoarse, hips bucking up against Captain Brainstorm pushing down.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around John’s body, under the coat, shifting them both till he was riding John’s cock at the same time as rubbing his own against John’s belly.

He kissed John hard, sucked on John’s lip and bit it softly, kissed again, sucked on John’s tongue while John surrendered, legs open, mouth open, eyes wide open.

“You belong to me,” said Captain Brainstorm, huffing with exertion and the intensity of the pleasure.

“Yes,” agreed Sea-Hawk John, “Yes. Yours. Mine. Me. You. Mine.”

“Yes.”

Like before, when they came, they forgot to keep quiet.

After, Sherlock stayed right where he was, straddling John’s lap. He could feel the come dribbling out of his arse; John could feel it dribbling onto his spent prick. Liked the feeling, really, with Sherlock warm in his lap, wrapped around him, kissing him, kissing him, kissing him, while his arms remained tied above his head.

“Enjoying your sex holiday?” Sherlock asked against his lips.

“Brilliant,” John confirmed. Another languid kiss.

“Never saw the point before,” added Sherlock.

“Not sure how I’m keeping up,” said John. Another slow, sloppy, perfect kiss.

“Inspiration,” suggested Sherlock.

“You are that,” agreed John. One more soft kiss.

“My arse is cold.”

“Well untie me and I’ll rub it warm again.”

“Keeping up?”

“Keeping warm.” A tug on the ends of the sashes and John’s hands were free. He cupped Sherlock’s arse and dredged up the energy to chafe the cheeks to warmness while the two of them snugged faces into one another’s necks and giggled.


	2. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble with the neighbour, a roleplay that doesn't go to plan, and John and Sherlock aren't quite shagged out yet.

Sherlock ignored the agitated knocking at the door for a good long while. He might have ignored it forever, except John, swearing, stumbled out of the guest room in a dressing gown and headed for the front door. Sherlock leapt up – his own robe swirling around his pyjama bottoms – to pull John’s robe closed over his naked crotch just as he unlatched the door. John was peering down, realising he’d almost flashed their visitor just as the door swung open.

A disgruntled man in his late sixties stood on the threshold.

“Oh,” said the man, looking at Sherlock, “It’s you.”

“Mr Smith,” said Sherlock, dripping disdain.

John’s robe began to slip open. Sherlock reached over to tug it closed again. No way was the neighbour going to get an eyeful of John’s morning wood. How impressive that John still managed morning wood after yesterday’s efforts. Oh, but no, there it went shyly into hiding. Pity.

“What?” Sherlock asked, aware that noise was issuing from the neighbour.

“I said, it’s _Mr Mannering_ ,” said the neighbour waspishly.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Sherlock, “I won’t remember.”

Mr Whassisname bristled. John, who had finally tied his robe shut, stood with folded arms. “Can we help you?”

“Yes. What the hell was that noise last night? And the night before?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth. John elbowed him in the ribs. “What noise?”

Mr Thingy’s face grew very red and his breathing strained. “All the sex noises.”

Sherlock wondered why he’d ever thought John was a terrible actor. Here he was being all deadpan as fuck. “Yeah, I heard that. I figured it was local teenagers skylarking about next door.”

Mr Blahblahblah was disinclined to believe him, judging by the look on his face.  “I heard two people having sex in that treehouse!”

Sherlock, with all the hauteur at his disposal, drew himself up tall and said, “Are you suggesting that Dr Watson and I were fucking each other’s brains out at night in a _treehouse_? _Men of our age_?  Our _public standing_? Doctor Watson is a war hero! I am a consulting detective! Do we look like the kind of people to _have intercourse in a treehouse_?”

“No,” said Mr Whosit rapidly in the face of such sincere and furious indignation, “No, of course not!”

“Do I look like a man to despoil treehouses at my parents’ home? Do you think Doctor Watson is in the habit of climbing trees?”

“My leg,” said John grimly, favouring one leg and rubbing at his thigh through the gown, “Invalided out of the army. Hurts like a bastard.”

“I’m so sorry,” said the neighbour, “My mistake. Not to worry. I’m sure it was teenagers, like you said.”

Mr Thingummybob, not sure how he’d become the embarrassed party in this awful confrontation, fled back to his home.

Sherlock closed the door, turned to John and undid John’s robe. He held it open to take a calming look at naked John, from dishevelled hair to dark tattoo, to quiescent cock, to sturdy legs to bare feet.

John blinked at him. “Considering breakfast, are we? Because I think I need at least another hour or two, and a fry-up.”

“I’ll get the kettle on.”

*

When John had finished showering and changing, he went upstairs looking for Sherlock. He opened one door to find a neat bedroom. King single bed. Neat bookshelves. Jenkin’s History of England. Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. A couple of Wodehouse hardcovers, which surprised him. On the wall, framed certificates for debating. Mycroft’s room.

Curious, John opened the door of the room opposite. A single bed there too, narrower, and messier shelves. Chemistry books and scruffy true crime books alongside an eclectic range of non-fiction and an omnibus of John Mortimer. A photograph of a red setter.

John hadn’t seen either of these rooms that Christmas. He’d slept initially on the sofa and then joined Mary in the guest room. This weekend had been strange in some ways. All these rooms that had such strong, unpleasant connections of that Christmas. The living room where he and Mary had kept on telling each other lies that they wanted to believe. The kitchen where Billy had drugged the Holmeses. The meadow where the helicopter had come to take them to the disaster at Appledore.

Every space now reclaimed with better memories.

“Looking for something?”

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You.”

“I’m not in there, as you can see.”

John turned back to face the bedroom. “Doesn’t look like you’ve done much with it. Are those your old university textbooks?” He recognised the Atkins Chemistry book, and the Saunders Core Anatomy series from his own studies.

“No need to redecorate since I left home,” said Sherlock, “It’s not like I’m here very often.”

John stepped into the room, holding Sherlock’s hand. He pulled Sherlock into his arms. “We could do a thing,” he said in his sex voice. “Student house party. Third year med student teaching you anatomy.” He pulled Sherlock into a kiss.

“I didn’t get invited to student parties,” said Sherlock. “Well, not after the first three.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “I’d have invited you to mine.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me then.”

“Course I would have. You’re funny, brilliant, and look at you.”

“You’d have wanted to have sex with me then?”

“Despite evidence to the contrary, I did know I was bisexual back then. I experimented a bit before I joined the army.”

Sherlock considered this and then started unbuttoning John’s shirt. “So. This scenario. Who is doing the seducing?”

“I was assuming me,” said John, watching Sherlock’s long fingers at his buttons, thinking that he should do some shabby stitching on more of his shirts so they could get on with more of the ripping things open business, “But I don’t mind.”

“You,” decided Sherlock, and let his hands fall to his sides.

John, with jaunty confidence, crowded Sherlock against the wall and leaned one hand on it above Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Great house party. Your parents away?”

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock. “You’re studying medicine.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’ve… seen you. Around.”

John grinned, all the cockiness of his youth in his eyes and the lift of his mouth. “I’ve seen you too.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Yeah. You hang about with Seb’s crowd, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock warily.

“He’s a knob,” said John, leaning close. “You’re worth ten of him.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Do you want to see what he calls my party trick?”

“Sure. Then I can show you mine.”

“What’s yours?”

“I can name all of your bones. While licking them.”

“I can tell you every secret you think you’re keeping.”

“Sounds exciting.” John leaned in to kiss Sherlock.

“It turns out, it really isn’t.”

John pulled back. “Are you okay?”

“No. I don’t like this game.”

John stepped back. “Sorry. I thought… sorry.”

“Why did you bring up Sebastian Wilkes?”

John shook his head, on the back foot, defensive, bewildered. “Nothing. I just thought… something from those days I knew about. I don’t know. Maybe a… do-over of that, too.”

Sherlock’s spine was rigid, his eyes hard. “Don’t you dare pity me, John.”

John blinked. “I don’t.”

“What is this, then?”

“I…” John closed his mouth. He took a steeling breath. He unclenched his jaw. “I’m… I think… jealous.”

That knocked the resentful sharpness right out of Sherlock. “Jealous?”

“Yeah, I think so. And greedy.”

Sherlock frowned and tried to read what John meant, and couldn’t. “What do you mean?”

John’s hands curled, uncurled. He took another breath and met Sherlock’s gaze.

“All those years we weren’t ready. For each other. All those years I didn’t even know you. I want them. I think I was… with this. I was trying to have them.”

“My years at university with Sebastian Wilkes?”

“He’s a fucking knob and I hate that he was there with you and I wasn’t.”

“This is nonsensical, John.”

“Yeah. I don’t care. I want them. I want all the years I didn’t have with you. All those years I was in the army and a doctor and I had almost everything I wanted, but it still wasn't ever right. I want you in them with me. I want the years when you were kid and wanted to be pirate. I want every minute when you were reading Robert Louis Stephenson and Rosemary Sutcliffe. I want every single fucking minute, good or bad, that I haven’t had with you. Those years you were fighting Moriarty and I thought you were dead. I want those too. The years I was in that worthless marriage, I want to make them yours so they’re worth something again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if this is too much. I'm a greedy fucker and I want all the days I didn't have or couldn't get.  But I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I want too much.”

“No you don’t,” said Sherlock, all tension fled. He was gazing at John in puzzled wonder. “But I still don’t think you would have liked me back then.”

“I’d have loved you any time. Anywhere. Any life. I've only ever felt right with you.”

Sherlock closed the space between them. He curled a hand around John’s jaw. “Sentimental hogwash,” he said softly.

“I don't care,” said John, “It's true.”  
  
“It's the oxytocin talking.”  
  
“No. I know what it meant. Means. Lonely all my life till you.”  
  
Sherlock's fingers slid through John’s hair, cupping his skull, drawing him near.  
  
“And me,” he said, “Till you.”  
  
John huffed a laugh through the thickness in his throat. “That's the oxytocin talking.”  
  
“Yes. But it's true.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel like I was… I don’t even know what.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s and they kissed until they were pliable in each other’s arms.

“I’m usually the extremist,” said Sherlock, amused.

“No you’re not.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed after a moment, “I’m not. All right then. All those years I had without you, and you without me? Gone. Dust. But all these days, John. All the hours and minutes and seconds from now on. All yours. Every single one.”  
  
Kissing transformed from soft and sweet to passionate, hungry, demanding. Buttons not pre-prepared for popping were ripped away anyway with impatience and ferocious want. Naked, they fell into Sherlock’s narrow bed, the one he’d slept in from boyhood to manhood in this once lonely room. They rocked together and the bed squeaked and groaned faster _fasterfasterfaster_ until they too groaned and sighed and shouted as they came.

John burrowed up close to Sherlock afterwards.

“God this bed is awful,” Sherlock said, hanging onto John so he wouldn’t fall off, “There’s no room for anybody.”

John wriggled in closer. “You forget. I was in the army. Sex on narrow bunks is another of my many skills.”

“You should get a merit badge.”

“That’s the scouts.”

“Nevertheless.”

*

Late that afternoon, shagged out, replete, and content, John succumbed to a modicum of guilt about having had sex all over his in-laws’ house. To compensate, he decided once he’d tidied up indoors that a little weeding would do the trick. Sherlock refused to feel anything like guilty about the deeply satisfactory sexcapades. As a result, he was lolling in a sun chair in the shade, reading Mycroft’s annotations and corrections in the margins of _The History of England_ aloud to John.

John was back in his khaki fatigues and had thrown his T-shirt over the back of Sherlock’s chair so he could catch the sun. Sherlock had thrown on his pirate breeches and flowing shirt. The latter had been torn beyond John’s skills at repair last night, and it hung open.

“He’s drawn a picture of himself as Queen Elizabeth I,” crowed Sherlock as John dug up a clump of grass from the rose bed.

“Bullshit.”

“The god’s truth, John.” Sherlock held up the book to show him.

Sherlock was adding a moustache to 12-year-old Mycroft’s unusual self-portrait when the taxi brought Mr and Mrs Holmes back to their cottage.

*

Mrs Holmes waved at John when he turned to greet them. There was that tattoo she’d surmised he wore. The padlock containing her Sherlock’s initials.

And oh, there was Sherlock sitting up, looking relaxed as he’d almost never done until this last year with John Watson, and there was a tattoo of a key over his heart, matching the lock on John’s chest.

Her husband paid the cab driver and stood beside her. With a little nudge and a pleased smile, he drew her attention to the matching tattoos.

“Sorry,” John was saying, pulling his T-shirt back on, “Just thought I’d do some weeding for you. Let me take those bags.”

“Sherlock can take those,” said Mrs Holmes. She took John’s arm and let it look like he was leading her inside when it was the other way around. “I’ll make tea and we can catch up on things.”

*

A month later, Mr Holmes took delivery of a brand new double bed for Sherlock’s old room. He grinned as he followed his son’s instructions to ‘throw that uncomfortable damned single on the fire’. Sherlock’s room was Sherlock-and-John’s room now, for whenever they decided to visit.

Good. It was about time.

And if Mr Mannering from next door had anything more to say about that ridiculous idea that Sherlock and John had been engaging in public indecency in the old treehouse, well, Mr Holmes could be utterly _scathing_ about that if he had to.


End file.
